Haircut
by Akira Cat
Summary: France wakes up in a dark room with a single light hanging above him. Imprisoned on a chair, he can only see his assailant approach him with a menacing smile and vengeful tendencies. He weeps helplessly as his kidnapper takes away the one thing that he considered was his only connection between him and God.


France's head throbbed painfully as his eyelids fluttered open, his vision blurred. Straight away he felt two cold metal plates against his cheeks. He pricked his head and tried to survey the area around him but he couldn't. Even with his eyes focused, the metallic frames prevented him from looking anywhere but what was in front of him. France tried lifting his hands so he could free himself but alas, they were bound onto a pair of arms of a wooden chair with the back seat and armrests swathed with Peru leather. He only knew it was that colour because a single light shone upon him leaving everything else in darkness. His legs strained to kick but gave up after meeting with another pair of steel binds. There was only so many places France could glance just my moving his sapphire blue eyes it unnerved him with every second. How did he end up in wherever this place was and more importantly, who was his assailant? He traced his panicking mind back to the day before everything went black.

France recalled visiting someone because the walls inside the house were pistachio green. The wooden dresser and ornaments had a western look about them so anywhere in Asia was out. While mentally eliminating the suspects, a shout in his mind made him wince.

"_Why must you do everything in your power to ridicule me in front of everyone? You do it every time we have a meeting on purpose!"_

The Frenchman let out a quiet gasp. He recognized that British dialect anywhere and then it all came flooding back. However, his thoughts were interrupted by footsteps echoing on the concrete floor. The kidnapper finally emerged from the darkness in front of their victim: straw-like blonde hair, thick eyebrows, France had guessed right. It was his long-time nemesis, England, who wore a menacing smirk.

"Good day to you Frog. I hope your head is feeling better from the impact with that vase you once gave to me as a gift." A fight. France remembered having a fight with England. First it was revealing their intentions behind their actions at the meeting, then it turned into name calling and hitting each other with low blow statements and one final statement from the Frenchman caused England to turn his world black by grabbing the nearest blunt object and bashing him over the head. France couldn't memorize the insult that drove the Englishman over the edge but it must have hurt him deeply.

"Whatever it is I said, I apologize! Just please let me go!" He begged but then he flinched when he felt the other's hand delve into his wavy blonde hair. It felt like snakes slithering on top of his head and through his locks.

"Do you recall cutting off all my hair after I've spent six months running up the country from that Frog hating bishop, Wolfstan? I was most upset. All I wanted was the acceptance of other people and you ruined it for me France. You destroyed that dream and I'm going to pay you back for it." The Frenchman's eyes widened in horror as his aggressor disappeared to the side. France tried to break out of the strong bonds holding him in his seat when he felt his hair being tied into a loose ponytail. "Don't worry yourself Frog. By the time I'm done with you, you'll look beautiful. In the meantime, I'll tell you the story engraved in your brain to take your mind off this ordeal; the story of Samson," His voice said in an eerie tone. The Frenchman no longer sensed England's hands near his head. Instead his ears pricked to the sound of a metal object of some sort scraping briefly against a wooden surface. He could guess what sat on what he believed was a table.

"Please! Don't cut my hair! I'll do anything! Just leave my gorgeous hair be!" However, his pleas were in vain as he felt the mystery blades sever the first section of locks. France let out a wail so loud that he didn't hear the beginning part of the story England had promised.

"Then went Samson to Gaza, and saw there an harlot, and went in unto her. And it was told the Gazites, saying, Samson is come hither. And they compassed him in, and laid wait for him all night in the gate of the city, and were quiet all the night, saying, in the morning, when it is day, we shall kill him." France wanted to bury his face in his hands to weep. He wanted his head, arms and legs to be free so he could escape this terrible fate. The Frenchman felt the last of his tresses being snipped away wishing he could wake up in his bed from a terrible nightmare but as with all cruel dreams, things got worse. England had finished with the scissors and picked up another thing the unleashed a buzzing sound at a flick of the switch. France gasped, tears streamed from his eyes.

"Non! Please don't!" He shrieked.

"And Delilah said to Samson, tell me, I pray thee, wherein thy great strength lieth, and wherewith thou mightest be bound to afflict thee," The Englishman continued calmly and dug the razor into the other's golden hair, releasing a cry from France. England guided the device down his scalp, leaving a track of baldness in its wake.

"Just stop! Just stop please!" France sobbed. By now the razor had left half of the sufferer's head with not trace of hair. It wasn't until a blonde tress fell on his tensed hand that he realized the full extent of the torture he was enduring. Soon he would be the laughing stock of the world if anyone were so much as to see him without his most treasured feature. No, he would have to hide away until his hair could grow back even if it meant skipping a few meetings. Without his wavy locks, he considered himself ugly, grotesque and unholy. In between his sobs France could hear England narrating the reason why he never set foot in a barbershop. He could only trust one person to cut his hair and make it as pure as it once was. But not even his most trusted barber could save him from England's sinful act.

"And it came to pass, when she pressed him daily with her words, and urged him, so that his soul was vexed unto death; that he told her all his heart, and said unto her, There hath not come a razor upon mine head; for I have been a Nazarite unto God from my mother's womb: if I be shaven, then my strength will go from me, and I shall become weak, and be like any other man." France's mind screamed at how his greatest rival had the heart to tell him the story both memorized as children. As a child, the Frenchman grew anxious upon the sight of shears while repeating the story in his head. He considered himself a God fearing citizen even if they didn't side with him on occasions when he needed the Lord's strength. And as England shaved the last patch of hair from the France's scalp, his hand clutched tightly around a clump of what was his elegant tresses.

"And Samson called unto the Lord, and said, O Lord God, remember me, I pray thee, and strengthen me, I pray thee, only this once, O God, that I may be at once avenged of the Philistines for my two eyes." The Englishman brushed away any stray hairs from France's head and switched the razor off. He placed it on the table and lifted a new object to his victim's face: a mirror. "There. You do look beautiful old chap. Open your eyes and see what I've done for you," he knew France's eyes were shut tight for he didn't want to see his new form so England pinched the other's thumb nail down until France let out a yelp and involuntary opened his eyes. "Now look Frog! Look at the beauty in front of you. Don't you look splendid?"

Afraid to disobey, the Frenchman blinked his teary eyes so he could see clearly. When he stared at his reflection, he burst into another set of sobs. The difference was painfully obvious once he lost all his hair. Even if he purchased a wig of the exact style prior to his shedding, the trauma of the Samson story reconstructed into reality was more than enough to mentally scar him. "God doesn't love me anymore… God doesn't love me anymore… God doesn't love me anymore…" France whimpered his mantra.

"Oh but we're not done yet!" England smirked and temporarily vanished before returning with one white strip in between his fingers and thumbs in each hand. "You're always making fun out of my eyebrows so I'll find some amusement to seeing you with none at all." At that moment, France asked himself how England can tell a holy story while committing an atrocity that would eventually drain his strength in all forms.

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**This is what happens when I combine a video of a woman getting her head shaved on Fear Factor and reading Bonnefoyplz's fan fic based on the word 'Bible' in 200 theme challenge on DeviantArt. You get a DarkEngland!France fic with 'hair-raising' results. ((****Slaps self for using a bad joke.****)) Review and fave! **


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